


click it or ticket day & night

by feltstrips



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, Episode: s01e04 Man on the Moon, M/M, Pseudo-Incest, because SOMEONE is drunk, emetophobia warning, pw/p
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 04:57:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18359057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feltstrips/pseuds/feltstrips
Summary: Five just sits there, unruffled in his dishevelment, perched on the edge of Diego's bed with his feet, those clownish oxfords not even touching the floor. Pinocchio, or something. Not a real boy.





	click it or ticket day & night

**Author's Note:**

> this was destined to be the first diego/five work but ALAS it just sat in my drafts for a month. if you snooze you lose.

The fluorescent lightbulb hanging desolate above Diego's head hums, the world's loudest halo. He thinks about it falling, breaking free and shattering into his scalp. Crown of glass, cascading. Heavy lies it.

Five shuffles his feet under the covers of Diego's bed. Maybe he's dreaming about rabbits. 

Diego sighs, whistling through his nose and rubs the back of his head, washboard-rough. Scars on scars. He's exhausted. Every time he takes a deep breath something fever-skinned pulses under his breastbone. Five stirs again, right in his ear yet across the room; Diego glances toward the sound, instinctive, and he's got his eyes open. Catches his gaze easy as anything. It's more than a touch spooky.

“Keep sleeping it off, kid,” he says, and breaks the staring contest. Five grunts and thrashes around, wrestling off his blazer. Makes a valiant three-second effort to undo his tie before the knot thumps against his chest, thrown down in disgust, loosened about six inches only. 

He sits himself up against the wall at a sloped angle. So cartoonishly sloppy-drunk Diego’s half expecting him to whip a bottle out of nowhere and take a swing, only to peer down the neck suspiciously and pour it out the wayside. _Gotta cut back on this stuff._ That sort of scripted.

He yawns and it looks uncomfortably rubbery. 

“Nah, Dora,” he says, soft and lazy, “Get your ten-cent peepshow somewhere else.” 

“What are you-” Diego starts, hung up on “Dora” for more than one reason but then he remembers the mannequin sitting like the world's smallest elephant in the room, chair to his left. He doesn't think its name even shortens to Dora. It won't leave the corner of his vision, now. “God, right.” 

Five ignores him. “Kind of a wild hair- hard to, uh,” he says, lollingy, “con-viince. ‘Specially with… him.” The hunk of plastic is silent. Roll him up in a carpet and send the loony bin his regards, Five's batshit crazy as they come, huh? And talking about Diego, now, if the way he scoffed “him” is anything to go by. Peachy.

“Listen,” he says, “listen, kid, just lay down. Tomorrow's got one hell of a hangover waiting for you. Quit while you’re ahead.”

Five giggles, actually giggles like a schoolgirl on prom night and slumps forward, a drawn-out penstroke, neck craning. He looks an underfed turkey vulture. Perfect companion for that charming thing, Dolores, or whatever, because like this, right now? He looks just about as whole as it. Her. Like he'd had his legs lopped off, too. Something about him dangles, a live wire, maybe, but not alive enough. He's holding his breath for the fallout, of course.

Five pauses in his mannequin-whispering and glances over to him, back to her, says _it's worth a shot_ and isn't speaking to Diego. 

And then he is. “Fuckit,” he says, gesturing at Diego's crotch, “why don’t I suck you off,” and “should”, slurred, sounds like shoe-ood.

To be Frank; Diego's jaw hits the floor. He thinks he makes some kind of like, popping noise, a disbelieving little snap from his vocal cords. Five just sits there, unruffled in his dishevelment, perched on the edge of Diego's goddamn bed with his feet, those clownish oxfords not even touching the floor. Pinocchio, or something. Not a real boy. 

“The fuck?” he says, after a healthy time to work his way to it. To speech. At least speech that's in one piece. 

“ ‘Lores would get a kick out of it,” Five says, shrugs. Diego stares at the mannequin. She leers right back ‘atcha, keep the change. Doesn’t look voyeuristic to him. 

“Luther could walk right through that door,” Diego says, “any minute,” but is he tempted? He could make a liar of himself. Already has. 

Five goes _pssh_ and says “Not until morning, now that he's got a tail on those two idiots,” rolling out of the bed and taking a sheet halfway off, dragging it to the floor. He steps on the hem and grinds dust into the fabric. Diego can sympathize.

“Although I may puke,” Five says, thoughtful, casual.

“The fuck you will,” Diego says, and then realize Five's pulled a fast one, opened him to the prospect. Is that what happened? He feels a little stuffed-up headwise at the idea of Five doing- well, no, at the idea of Five in general, he sets off Diego's nerves on a good day. When he's sober, even. Less unraveled.

By now he's toddled his tipsy way over and Diego's gotta catch him by the shoulder when he starts to keel to one side.

“Gift horse,” Five says, “mouth. This just might be your last chance.” His knees thud against the concrete. Okay. So whatever, whatever. No personal strings attached, except the stitched-up birth certificates. Adoption papers. Who even reads those anymore, yeah?

Diego says “The joke would be funnier if you weren't sloshed.”

He grins up at the ceiling because his eyes aren't quite focusing on Diego's face, or, willfully, he won't look at him dead-on. 

“Sure, I'm joking,” Five says, and nudges his legs open with the back of his hand, his wrist. Off-center.

“Whoa, whoa, no,” says Diego, “We're not- not if you're gonna fucken' throw up on me, kid.”

“Sisyphean is my task,” he mutters, and flickers a commiserating look at the mannequin.

“What was that about Syphilis? You got the fucken' Clap?”

Five makes a strange, jumping sound and grins. “Is that what you think Sisyphean means?”

Diego sighs through his nose again, brows knotted, and grasps the top of his head. Directs him into firm face-to-face eye contact; probably the easiest compliance he'll ever get from Five. It's like turning a ball-in-socket joint. “Promise me you ain't gonna puke," he says. 

“I won't,” he says, still grinning lazily, but now there's a touch of deadness in it. Trademark, in a way, telling. A hank of hair falls, brushes against his sweat-shiny eyelid.

“Promise me.”

“Christ,” he says, “Diego fucken’ Hargreeves, I swear on my- _our_ mother's eye I won't vomit while I perform fell- fella-ti-toe on you.” 

Diego doesn't know how to pronounce “fellatio” either, but he's pretty sure that's not it. 

“Don't bring Mom into this,” he says, relenting, and lets Five's fingers fumble for his zipper, “and don't say ‘our’.”

“Would you prefer I said 'father's'?” he asks, bats his lashes exaggerated and then catches himself, grimaces. No off button to the self-possession, even still. 

Diego's soft when Five pulls his cock out but he lays his mouth on it anyway, tongue first, wet and strangely lukewarm. Diego grunts, grips the arms of the chair and Five laughs up at him, damp little noise. 

“Having some trouble, huh,” He says, leans back, sliding his slim fingers over him and pulling out lines of his own drool.

“Yeah, still dealing with the idea of getting head from a preteen,” Diego says, and flicks Five in the forehead. He flicks Diego's steadily chubbing-up dick, he winces and gets out the first syllable of _hey_ , Five pulls him back into his mouth he before he can do anything worse.

“Ah, shit- teeth,” Diego hisses, and then remembers Five hasn't done this before. Presumably, because he can't imagine there's much need to give head in the wasteland. What an uncomfortable thing to realize. Five mumbles and grazes his bottom teeth on the underside of Diego's shaft and it stings a note in the wrong direction, even with the sloppy, building heat. 

“This isn't going to work,” he says, and braces the heel of his hand against Five's forehead. Pushes him off, a dragging sort of motion. The corner of Five's mouth twitches down, scrunches up, and he goes slow like he's drifting underwater.

“Just,” he says, and draws out a mystery word into a groan, frustrated, antsy. Still somehow quiet, just as he's been this whole time, two decibels above a whisper. He grasps the front of Diego's harness and tugs up. Has to crane out his arm to do so. 

Diego gets to his feet. The chair creaks, anxious. Five's sitting up instead of slouching on his heels, looking like he's ready to start praying and that's just too Choir Boy, innocuous even on his knees. Second thoughts? Too late. 

“Do it this way,” Five says, lowly. He guides Diego's hand to his lips, opens up and fits his thumb between his molars, fingers under his chin, curled into his jawline. The breadth of his palm spans the whole of Five's cheek, his bones feeling hollow-plastic insubstantial, framed underneath his drooping, stretched-open half smile.

“Uh,” Diego says. Five gives him this silvery look, spits already pooling in the crevices of his mouth. It's hot on his skin. Age-old turnon.

So Diego does it that way and takes his cock and places it on Five's lower lip, pushes it into a plush fold under the head, bumps against his teeth. Not teasing but hesitant, and he'll never live that down. Five rolls his eyes. There's no way that nip to Diego's thumb is accidental.

He says “Easy,” absentminded.

Five's eyebrows raise and he slides a hand up Diego's thigh, over his ass. All too intimate and bold, and presses into the small of his back. Spurring him forward, so giddyup, then; he moves with it and pushes into Five's jacked-open mouth. Steady feed. 

Five takes it until there's nowhere else to go but his throat, jam-packed with only a little wrinkle to his nose. He's so warm in there. A self-centered furnace, all tadpole-slick cheeks and tongue and no sign of gagging, not yet. 

Diego pulls out an inch or so. Five seems to unconsciously lean with the shift of his hips, like he wants to deepthroat right off the bat, eyes softly closed, but Diego holds him in place by the jaw. Better not to tempt the fates. 

“Not bad, kid,” he says, a touch winded. If Five didn't have a mouthful Diego’s sure he would have made a remark like _It'll be better if you get on with it,_ but he just opens his eyes, squints upwards. Annoyed. Diego thinks he can feel his heartbeat under his tongue. He’s sure Five can feel his- taste it, and that thought is such a mishmash of bad porn oneliner and exhilarating that his cock twitches. Five hums, reactionary, tries to take more down his gullet. Whatever. He'll cave- if Five wants it, let him have it.

Diego doesn't quite give him enough real estate to breathe before he's sliding back in, then out, then in, conscious of Five’s teeth but fast enough that his eyes snap open, a little shocked. Five shifts his hand from where it'd been resting lax on his belt and grabs his hip, right over the bone. Bracing himself, gripping. Yanking Diego forward when his pace stutters so he picks up the tempo, slipping shallow in and out of Five’s mouth. Spit starts to pearl down his chin.

“Atta boy,” he breathes, staring at his lips, that beaten bright pink showing in shiny flashes, “atta boy, Five, c'mon.” 

Has to be that he's drunk, that he's liquored-up to that point of bending, but still; Five _whines_ around him. In front of god an' everybody, hand on the bible, swear he heard it.

Diego says “oh, shit,” laughingly, disbelieving, “fuck yeah, y'like that, huh?” 

Five's next noise sounds closer to a saliva-clotted growl but Diego will take it; almost woozily he dislodges his thumb so he can get a better angle, straight down instead of making room, oh-so irresponsible. 

Diego hunches forward, over him, precariously deep. On every other thrust, Five's nose brushes into his pubes and he's groaning under his breath, short, sounds like _atta-boy atta-boy atta-boy, good._ Five's throat catches on the head of his cock every time he thrusts and he's making these little gulping motions but his eyes have slipped shut again, wet around the edges, blissed-out. Or just concentrating, maybe. He'd believe it. 

He's right there; he's inches from tipping over the edge when Five starts gagging half-garbled words out around his cock and pulling away. Diego lets go as fast as he can. Five bats his dripping hand out of his face anyway and leans back all at once, shedding strings of drool and pre, the pullout making this nasty, gooey _pop_.

“Shit,” Diego says, tripping over an apology and resisting the urge to frantically shove his slimy dick down in his boxers, out of sight out of mind. Five pants once, twice, sounding clogged up. Swallows. Blinks hard enough to squeeze unshed tears from the corner of his shock-trip blown-wide eyes. 

He says “Five, y- y- you- y'good?” 

As if on cue, he goes limp from the waist up and slumps over, cracking his jaw against the edge of the chair on his way down. Vomit splatters over Diego's shoes. 

“Fuck me,” says Diego. Five gurgles a little.

**Author's Note:**

> keep in mind that patch is getting shot as this shit goes down. if you want to scream at me for that im on twitter and tumblr @feltstrips


End file.
